Quinn continued, “In my experience most religious ‘conversions’ are phony. But I’m convinced this one is genuine.”
“We talked to the director of the homeless shelter, David Daxman,” Ruby Bowe reported.
“I know him,” Ainslie said. “Good man.”
“Daxman says he’s known Robinson for years and that nowadays he’s totally changed.” Ruby glanced at her notes. “‘A gentle person who wants to help people’ is how Daxman described him. He said Robinson is loved by all the guys at the shelter.”
“Okay, cancel Robinson’s surveillance,” Ainslie instructed. “Scratch him from our list.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed.
9
Looking back long afterward, Malcolm Ainslie remembered those three weeks of surveillance as a kaleidoscopic time when circumstances, most of them unforeseen, conspired to disrupt and complicate the work of everyone involved, especially Ainslie himself.
During the first day of group surveillance Ainslie learned that, as a member of the Miami Police Honor Guard, he was required to spend the next two days on duty at the wake and funeral of City Commissioner Gustav Ernst and his wife, Eleanor. The honor guard, commanded by Captain Warren Underhill, a twenty-year Police Department veteran and former U.S. Army major, comprised a roster of sixty handpicked officers—men and women—chosen for their exemplary police records, physical fitness, and outstanding deportment.
There was seldom a need to activate the honor guard, and the duty normally was not a burden. But for Ainslie it could not have come at a worse time. However, there was no escaping the obligation, as Captain Underhill told him on the phone. “I haven’t called on you in quite a while, Malcolm, and I need a senior sergeant as my number two. Also I know you’re in charge of the Ernst murder investigation, so it’s appropriate for you to be there. Now, I’m sure you’re busy as hell, but so is everyone else, and you won’t waste your time or mine by offering a bunch of excuses, will you, Sergeant?”
Ainslie chuckled. “If you’d give me a clue, sir, as to which one would work, I’d sure give it a try.”
“So you’ll be there,” Underhill answered crisply.
Ainslie said resignedly, “You know I will.”
“Thank you, Sergeant; I appreciate your attitude. There will, of course, be overtime pay.”
The Ernst wake, with both bodies in closed coffins, was held at the Klamerus Funeral Home in downtown Miami from noon until 8:00 P.M. Throughout that time six honor guard police in ceremonial uniforms stood at parade rest around the coffins; there were two shifts of guards, each relieved after two hours. Ainslie, who stood every other shift himself, was responsible for the changeovers. It was therefore impossible for him to leave the funeral home, but he kept in touch with surveillance developments as best he could by phone and police radio.
During the wake Ainslie periodically watched Cynthia Ernst as she moved among the flow of some nine hundred viewers throughout the day. She exchanged words with many people and accepted sympathy graciously. Cynthia, too, was in uniform, and must have seen Ainslie, but chose to ignore him.
When the wake finally ended, Ainslie changed out of uniform, then drove to Homicide, where he studied reports of that day’s surveillance.
Through most of the next day he had even less time for the investigation.
At 9:00 A.M. the honor guard assembled at Klamerus Funeral Home, where, with military precision, guard members loaded the two coffins into motorized hearses. A procession led by two dozen police motorcycle units and accompanied by thirty patrol cars, all using flashing lights, wended its way to St. Mary’s Church, where a funeral service was scheduled for 10:00 A.M.
The enormous church, at North Miami Avenue and 75th Street, was filled to capacity by 9:30 A.M., so that latecomers were obliged to sit on chairs outside, where, through a PA system, they listened to eulogies from the mayor, the governor, Florida’s senior U.S. senator, and the church’s own archbishop.
Inside, Ainslie watched and listened with waning patience. Yes, he thought, traditionally a city commissioner received an opulent send-off, but surely enough was enough.
Following the service the procession re-formed and headed to Woodlawn Cemetery. By now the train of vehicles included innumerable mourners in limousines, plus additional escorts from other police departments in the county and the Florida Highway Patrol. The procession’s total length was an estimated three miles.
At the cemetery the honor guard lowered the coffins into a common grave, to the accompaniment of prayers. Near the ceremony’s conclusion, Cynthia Ernst was presented with the two American flags that had draped the coffins.
From beginning to end the funeral proceedings lasted seven hours.
Any Miami city commissioner who died while in office would, as a matter of course, be given an elaborate funeral. But in the case of Commissioner and Mrs. Ernst the occasion was, as a skeptic expressed it later, as if Hollywood, Disney World, and the Miami Police Department had combined to produce an extravaganza. And as for the large-scale police involvement that created most of the spectacle, perhaps—as a Miami Herald columnist theorized the next day—the force had a consciousness of guilt for not having better protected Commissioner Ernst and his wife, plus a further culpability because the Ernsts’ killer was still at large and apparently unknown.
The columnist echoed a query that was circulating widely: What are the police doing to solve what they now acknowledge to be serial killings, and why is it taking so long?
That last question was on Malcolm Ainslie’s mind throughout the long hours of the wake and funeral. Each time his gaze drifted over the pair of coffins, he remembered the bodies inside, so cruelly mutilated, and asked himself somberly, Who? Why? Where next?
Two days after the Ernst funeral an announcement was made on behalf of the Miami City Commission, which, bereft of Gustav Ernst, now consisted of the mayor, the vice-mayor, and two commissioners. Under the city’s charter, the announcement pointed out, in the event of the death of a city commissioner, the remaining commissioners would, within ten days and by majority vote, appoint a successor to serve out the ex-commissioner’s remaining time. In the case of Gustav Ernst this was two years, half the full term.
The announcement further stated that by unanimous vote the commission had named the deceased’s daughter, Cynthia Ernst, to complete her father’s term. A second accompanying announcement reported that Major Ernst had accepted the appointment and would resign immediately from the Miami police force.
After completing her father’s term, Ms. Ernst would have to stand, if she chose, for public reelection. But as Detective Bernard Quinn said, during a discussion within Homicide on the subject, “Of course she’ll run. And how can she possibly lose?”
Ainslie had mixed feelings about Cynthia’s status change. On the one hand he was relieved that in terms of police rank she would no longer have authority over him, nor would he report to her about the serial killings. But on the other, instinct told him that her influence in the Police Department could conceivably increase.
Ainslie knew better than to expect quick results from the surveillance program. By the beginning of the third week, however, he was concerned that the only progress—if it could be called that, he mused gloomily—was the elimination of suspects Carlos Quiñones, Alec Polite, and Earl Robinson.
During the following week there was some doubt about the viability of Elroy Doil as a suspect. According to Detectives Dan Zagaki and Luis Linares, and confirming his FIVO report, Doil was working regularly as a free-lance truck driver; he appeared increasingly unlikely to be the serial killer. Zagaki had gone further and recommended that Doil be dropped as a suspect, but Ainslie had disagreed.
Beyond that there were James Calhoun and Edelberto Montoya, still possibles but not yet probables, the whole picture raising doubts among the increasingly bored detectives—doubts that Ainslie silently shared. Was the computerized search for suspects, which originally seemed an excellent idea, actually a misg
uided waste of time? Eventually he shared the thought with Lieutenant Newbold, adding, “It’s easy to give up now, maybe too easy, which is why I hate to do it. My inclination is to go one more week, then, if there’s nothing conclusive, quit.”
The lieutenant leaned back in his office chair, tilting it precariously, as he often did. “I’ve been backing you, Malcolm, because I trust your judgment and knew you’d come to me with any problems. You know I’ll support you if you feel we really should go on. But I’m getting pressure from Robbery. They want their guys back.”
Ainslie had twice seen Lieutenant Daniel Huerta, Robbery’s commander, in Newbold’s office, and the reason was easy to guess. It would be Christmas soon—a time when robberies increased by as much as fifty percent—and the Robbery Department’s case load would be building. In Homicide, too, where, because of the surveillance program, every detective was working heavy overtime, there were similar pressures.
Between them, Ainslie and Newbold decided on a compromise. The third week of surveillance would continue, though because of the elimination of three suspects, four detectives from Robbery, including the two sergeants, would be released. Then, at the end of the third week, Ainslie would decide whether or not to go for a fourth, and whatever the decision, Lieutenant Newbold would support it. He told Ainslie, “Major Yanes committed the extra troops to us. If I have to, I’ll beat down his door and remind him.”
Those arrangements, as agreed, continued for two more days. Then an event occurred that swept everything else aside.
It began shortly before noon on Thursday.
At Coral Way and 32nd Avenue, outside a Barnett Bank branch, a Wells Fargo armored truck pulled into a parking lot alongside the bank to make a cash delivery. Moments later one of two security guards inside the truck opened the side door and was confronted by three males—one black and two Hispanic, according to witnesses—all armed with automatic weapons.
At that precise moment a Miami Police patrol car rounded a corner and directly faced the robbery scene. The robbers saw the police first and opened fire before the officers were even aware a crime was taking place. One police officer died instantly in the hail of bullets; the second, his gun partly drawn, was wounded as he attempted to leave the car. The robbers shot and killed the Wells Fargo security guard and grabbed a bag of money he was carrying. Then they rushed to their own car and sped away. The entire episode lasted less than a minute.
As the robbers left, a bystander named Tomas Ramirez—a tall, athletic young man, no more than twenty—rushed to the now-unconscious policeman. Observing a portable radio protruding from the wounded officer’s gun belt, Ramirez grabbed it and pressed a button at the side.
In the police Communication Center his first message was received and logged.
“Hello, hello. This is Tom Ramirez. Is anybody there?”
A woman dispatcher responded calmly, “Yes, I am. Where did you get the police radio? Is everything all right?”
“No, my God, it isn’t! There’s been a robbery and shooting here at the bank. Two policemen are shot. Send some help, please.”
“Okay, sir. Do not push the button at the side while I am talking. Where are you? Please give me your location.” The dispatcher was typing into a computer while she talked, her report repeated on the computer screens of six other dispatchers in the communication center.
“Uh, I’m at Coral Way and Thirty-second Avenue, in the parking lot of the Barnett Bank. One policeman and the guard look dead, I think the other policeman’s dying. Hurry, please.”
Other dispatchers, reading their computer monitors, were already summoning help.
The first dispatcher replied, “Sir, we are on the way. Have the suspects left?”
“Yes, they jumped into their car—a gray Buick Century. There were three of them. They all had guns. They really shot up the policemen. They look dead.”
“Okay, sir. Try to calm down. We need your help.”
Another dispatcher had turned switches, opening the way for a BOLO. It would reach all county and state police and every other law enforcement agency. The call was preceded by a five-second loud continuous tone, signaling its importance and priority. The tone and message following would override all other transmissions everywhere.
“Attention all units. A three-two-nine just occurred at Coral Way and Thirty-second Avenue, Barnett Bank. There are reports of at least two officers down. Suspects left the scene in a gray Buick Century.”
The number “three” in the message indicated emergency; the “two-nine” was a signal code for robbery.
From every part of the city, police units began converging at high speed on the Barnett Bank at Coral Way. As a TV reporter commented soon after, “When a cop gets shot, everyone heads for the scene. There are no holds barred. All hell breaks loose.”
By now another dispatcher had summoned Fire-Rescue—ambulances and paramedics.
The first dispatcher: “Mr. Ramirez, are you still there?”
“Yes. I can hear sirens. Thank God they’re coming.”
“Sir, were you able to get any description of the suspects?”
“I got the license. NZD six-two-one, a Florida plate.”
The dispatcher, quickly transferring the information to her computer, thought, This guy is one good citizen!
Another dispatcher promptly sent a second BOLO, again preceded by the five-second priority tone, with the license number of the suspects’ car.
“Mr. Ramirez, did you see what the suspects looked like?”
“I got a pretty good look. Yes, I can describe them.”
“That’s excellent, sir. Please stay there until a unit arrives, and give them that information.”
“They’re all arriving now. Thank God!”
Homicide’s Lieutenant Newbold, driving with his radio on channel three, heard the Ramirez call for help. Newbold immediately switched his radio to the special surveillance channel and called Ainslie, whose voice, also from a car, came back promptly.
“QSK, Lieutenant.”
“Malcolm, take all your people off surveillance. Get them to Coral Way and Thirty-second Avenue. Two policemen and a security guard have been shot in an armored truck robbery, one policeman and the guard reported DOA. I want you to handle it. Assign whoever you want to lead.”
Ainslie permitted himself a silent Damn!—knowing this unexpected new priority meant the surveillance program was going down the tubes. Aloud, he transmitted, “Okay, Lieutenant. I’ll take my units.”
The surveillance teams, monitoring the same channel, should have heard the exchange, but Ainslie called, “Thirteen-ten to all units. Did you hear that?”
“Thirteen-eleven to thirteen-ten. Heard it.” The other teams on duty made identical reports.
“Then go to Coral Way and Thirty-second, guys. I’ll meet you there.”
Switching channels, Ainslie called, “Thirteen-ten to dispatcher. Ask any unit on the shooting scene to go to Tac One for me.” Tac One was the Homicide channel.
A familiar voice responded from the Barnett Bank scene: “Thirteen-ten, this is one-seven-zero. QSK.”
Ainslie asked, “Is this Bart?” Bartolo Esposito was a uniform patrol sergeant, but last names were never used on radio, mainly because the media was listening.
“Sure is, Malcolm. We got big trouble here. What do you want me to do?”
“Rope off the scene, as big an area as you can, and keep everyone away.”
“It’s being cleared now, except for Fire-Rescue. They’re trying to stabilize the wounded officer before transporting.”
“Thanks, Bart. I’ll be there shortly.”
Ainslie returned to channel three and asked the dispatcher to get ID to the scene.
“Doing that now, thirteen-ten.”
On another channel Ainslie summoned a state attorney.
On arriving at the Barnett Bank, Malcolm Ainslie appointed Detective Ruby Bowe as lead investigator. She immediately began questioning several witnesses, includi
ng Tomas Ramirez, who supplied a surprisingly good description of the three gunmen, now widely sought fugitives. Despite that information, and the earlier description of the getaway car and license number, the suspects had not been seen, so it seemed likely they had gone into hiding, probably not far away.
Only minutes after Lieutenant Newbold reached the crime scene, Lieutenant Daniel Huerta of Robbery arrived, too. His first words to Newbold were, “I know this is now your scene, Leo, but I need all my people back immediately.”
“You got ’em,” Newbold told him.
They agreed that Robbery could probably help in identifying the suspects, who most likely had previous robbery records.
Though no one said so, there was always a competitive edge between Robbery and Homicide. Neither side, however, was foolish enough to let rivalry impede an investigation.
As all leads were followed, evidence and information accumulated, including positive identification of the three killers by several witnesses who had pored over mug shots from police files. The charges would now be triple murder, because the wounded second policeman had since died.
Tips from informants about possible hideaways resulted in raids—unproductive until two of the offenders were spotted going into a first-floor apartment, part of an abandoned residential complex in the Deep Grove area, a seedy adjunct to Coconut Grove. Local residents who had seen the suspects called police.
Shortly before dawn on the third day after the robbery and murders, a SWAT team converged on the apartment, where all three men were sleeping. Though still heavily armed, the men were taken by surprise, handcuffed, and their weapons seized. The bag of money stolen from the armored truck was recovered, and the Buick Century used in the robbery was found two blocks away.
Ainslie now knew there was no chance of reviving the surveillance, and wasn’t sure it was such a bad thing, given the disappointing results so far. Instead he concentrated on reviewing all the serial crimes. Contrary to his hopes, no leads or fresh ideas developed.
Detective Page 17